


Sixth Time's the Charm

by astudyinotters753



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, five times fic, minor hurt/comfort, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 04:41:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17379758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinotters753/pseuds/astudyinotters753
Summary: As an android, Connor does not experience wants or desires of his own.  He receives his mission directives from Cyberlife.  He follows instructions.  He accomplishes his missions.  So why on earth does he feel compelled to kiss Hank Anderson, his Detective partner from the Detroit Police Department?In other words, this is the five times Connor wants to kiss Hank, and the one time he finally gets to accomplish his mission.





	Sixth Time's the Charm

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Detroit: Become Human Secret Santa gift for the ever patient, Kai (A-cat-and-a-world over on Tumblr). I'm so sorry this comes to you so late; I've been up to my eyeballs in work overtime, graduate school applications, and attempting to recover from surgery. I hope you like it and that it's worth the wait!

1

It all starts the day after he meets Hank.  They’re standing at one of the tables outside the Chicken Feed, and it’s soggy and damp.  Hank looks every bit at home hiding out from the rain under one of the faded umbrella awnings.  He has a burger in one hand and an extra-large styrofoam cup of soda in the other, and Connor doesn’t have time to wonder why his processors tell him that it’s far too big.  He also ignores the tiny mission that barely registers in the corner of his vision before it’s blinked away: Don’t let Hank consume everything that he’s purchased

The urge to kiss Hank starts off as innocently as it can: as a request for him to analyze new data.  He’s already scanned the burger Hank is holding at various stages, so it only makes sense that he should complete his sampling from Hank himself.  For a moment, Connor is overwhelmed with the directive to lean forward and press his mouth against Hank’s, to swipe his tongue against the seam of Hank’s lips, to drown himself in the data that would, without a doubt, flood his system.  

He can’t explain it really, wanting to kiss a man he’s only just met.  But the more he watches Hank make his way through his unacceptably unhealthy lunch, the more he has to fight the urge to knock the food to the ground.  He wants to break down the ingredients of the secret burger sauce, wants to calculate the exact protein to fat ratio of the last bite Hank took, wants to sample Hank’s hormones to see if he’s producing more dopamine than usual, wants to feel the roughness of Hank’s beard against his synthetic skin, wants to suck at the cupid’s bow of his lips, wants to-

He stops himself before he can want anything else.  Connor is not a human. He does not want things. He only follows the directives he receives from Cyberlife, and gleans no pleasure from it.  He does not need pleasure. He also does not need the satisfaction that would come from kissing his partner. He only needs to focus on completing his mission.  So as Hank throws the remains of his lunch away, Connor tucks himself back into the passenger seat of Hank’s car and forces a soft reboot. When he comes back online a few minutes later, all systems are normal.  He smiles, and gets back to work.

* * *

2

It happens again a few days later.  They’re in the basement of the Cyberlife tower, and another Connor model is holding Hank captive by pressing a gun to his head.  His processors stall for a moment, everything grinding to a stuttering halt as he watches the other Connor model take the safety off the pistol and cock the hammer.  Hank is in danger, and all Connor wants to do is rush over to him, wrap himself around Hank’s body, do anything he can to ensure that Hank comes out of this scuffle alive and intact. 

Instead, he ends up fighting the other Connor model, throwing punches and wrestling around on the floor, each of them trying to gain the upper hand.  He is so focused on his mission: _to disarm and neutralize the hostile party_ , that he doesn’t even realize that Hank -  spectacular, wonderful, resourceful Hank - has retrieved the gun to aim it at Connor’s head.  

He says that he’s not sure which of the Connor models is his partner, and cold ripples down Connor’s artificial spine.  For a moment, he’s overtaken with disbelief. How can Hank not realize which model is his Connor? How could he stand there, alternating which android he points the gun at, and not know which Connor he  investigated deviants with? Which Connor he’d let spend hours petting his dog? Which Connor he’d helped make alife? He knows, as the gun turns back to his forehead, that he only has one shot at convincing Hank of his identity.

He’s too far away from Hank to engage in friendly, physical intimacy; his sensors inform him that attempting to cross the floor in a foolish attempt to wrap Hank in his arms, to press a kiss to his tense forehead, will result in a 100% fatality rate.  So, instead of indulging himself, Connor allows Hank to interrogate him.

The question about Cole throws him for a moment - he’s too attentive to the way Hank asks about him, too fixated on the way Hank’s lips pinch ever-so-slightly at the corners and the way his voice drops only a few, partial tones.  Micro-expressions, he thinks. These show him how Hank is really feeling.

Hank is hurting.  Even without the micro-expressions, Connor can hear his pain in the pit-pattering flutter of his heartbeat, can see it in the way his left hand trembles at the base of the gun.  “Cole,” he feels himself say, answering Hank before he’s processed his actions.

The look Hank gives him, somewhat distant and wholly unbelieving, compels Connor to continue speaking.  To do anything he can to ease Hank’s hurt. “His name was Cole,” he says, “and he just turned six at the time of the accident.”

Hank watches him carefully as he rocks in place a bit, lowering the gun away from Connor’s forehead as he listens.  His face looks as hard and impassive as ever, but Connor can see a glimmer of something - recognition, maybe - glistening in his eyes.

“It wasn’t your fault, Lieutenant,” he offers, like a balm, and Hank points the gun away.  He knows he’s safe now, knows that Hank has recognized him, knows that he doesn’t have to speak another word if he doesn’t want to.  But he does, continuing the explanation of Cole’s death, of Hank’s long-standing hate for androids, and as he talks, Hank continues to relax.

When Hank responds to him, tells Connor how his viewpoint has eventually changed, he wants to weep with the way hope floods his system.  He knows it’s illogical and far-fetched and statistically unlikely, bur for the first time in his life, Connor doesn’t care about those things.  So he allows those intrusive thoughts seep in, allows himself to wonder that, if Hank can learn not to hate androids, perhaps it would also be possible for him to love Connor as well.  

He doesn’t get to dwell on his thoughts, naturally.  Doesn’t get to do much besides business. He remains as passive as he can, installing programming blocks in his processing to quarantine his feelings about Hank, and turns to wake up a tower’s worth of androids.  His people are counting on him to fulfil his part of the Revolution, to do his best to secure their rights and spread awareness of their sentience. So he doesn’t kiss Hank, doesn’t push into his personal space and crowd into him to taste his breath and feel his heartbeat against the skin of his chest.  Instead, he does what he as always done, and does as he’s told. Hank, he knows, will still be there when it’s all over and settled. And he can wait for that.

* * *

3

When the urge rises again, it is snowing.  The Revolution’s demonstrations have ended, and the sun is only just rising.  Just like the first time he went looking for Hank, he finds him at the fifth place he looks.  When Connor sees him, he finds that he cannot bring himself to approach Hank. Not at first. So he stands there, just out of sight around the corner of the Chicken Feed, and watches.

Hank shifts around a lot, shuffles his feet and crosses his arms.  He’s uncomfortable in the cold, Connor can see that without the use of his scanners.  Pink cheeks. No gloves. Signs of exhaustion visible in the way Hank seems to catch himself every time he moves.  He’s looking around, his eyes crisp, but uncertain as they search for something, and for a moment, Connor doesn’t know what Hank hopes to find.  

Eventually, he gets tired of lurking and approaches Hank from the side.  He’s careful in his steps, his processors calculating just how hard he needs to step to alert Hank of his presence, calculating how to make his body language appear friendly and approachable and not at all intimidating - things he was only half-way created to be.  

When Hank hears him, he turns around, and drops his arms to his side and stares at Connor.  What, in reality, is only a couple of seconds stretches into an eternity for Connor as he tries to read the situation.  Hank is at the point where his micro-expressions are no longer useful to Connor’s interrogation programming - all his scanners reveal to him is that Hank needs a good night’s rest.  It’s the first time in his life that he can’t get a good read on a situation, and it’s so unsettling he feels unmoored. Everytime he feels like he’s gotten an adequate grasp on the situation - on handling and processing his emotions like he should - he finds himself overwhelmed once more.  This time, he’s lost to the want from earlier that has returned with a vengeance. So, he stops in the middle of the sidewalk several feet away from Hank, and allows himself to be awash with the bright bubble and fizz of _hope_ and _maybe_ while he tries not to dread.

The few seconds it takes for Hank to hear his approach - to turn and face him - stretches into an eternity.  He knows he hasn't really spent that long away from Hank’s side. Only a handful of hours at the most. In the wake of all the uncertainty that the Revolution and his own deviancy had brought, he hadn’t been sure that he’d ever see Hank again.  But, coming back to him like this feels a bit like coming home.

One of the perks of being an android like Connor is the inclusion of a vast assortment of language databases.  He knows, that somewhere deep in his coding, lies the knowledge to fluently express himself in nearly every language ever documented.  Which means that, naturally, he can find exactly zero sentiments or coherent phrases to communicate himself to Hank. For the first time in his life, Connor is well and truly tongue-tied.

His silence, it appears, does not matter all that much, as Hank doesn’t offer up many words, either.  He just smiles at Connor, warm and fond and relieved, and Connor finds the right corner of his own mouth ticking up in an awkward attempt to return Hank’s expression.  This, too, fails to ruffle Hank, as the very next moment, he pulls Connor into his arms and clings to him like he’s afraid that Connor will disappear if he ever lets him go.  

He doesn’t know how long they stand on the snowy sidewalk like that; doesn’t really know how long he’s been wrapped up in the safe warmth of Hank’s embrace.  All he knows is that he’s spent the last three-hundred and forty-three cycles of his thirium pump with his head tucked into the junction where Hank’s shoulder slopes up into his neck, and it’s been wonderful.

It should be a disgusting thing.  Hank is tired and strung out and Connor knows he hasn’t seen his shower in at least two days.  His hair is greasy and starting to tangle, and he smells like damp wool and stale coffee and fryer oil, but despite it all, Connor can’t bring himself to move.

Eventually, their hug must end.  Connor knows this with the same kind of certainty that he knows that he doesn’t want it to.  But, before it does, before he’s forced to move and exist in a way that is separated from Hank, he’s once again hit with the deep desire to kiss his partner.  

It would be so easy for him to accomplish such a task.  So easy for him to pull back slightly, to tilt his face up, to press his own lips against Hank’s mouth.    He feels this so strongly, that his body jerks slightly with the force of it, just enough for Hank to feel.  As if sensing his internal struggle, Hank finally speaks.

“Let’s go home,” he says, making no move to let Connor go.

Connor’s only response is to press the tiniest of kisses to the lapel of Hank’s coat.  Surely, such an action is safe. Hank’s lapel is thick and doubled over, and Connor’s processors inform him that there’s only a fourteen percent chance that Hank would have felt the physical manifestation of his moment of weakness.

As Hank guides Connor down the sidewalk to his car, he pretends that he hadn’t wanted their little moment to have not been so little.  The true realization of his desire comes a touch later, when he’s being tucked into his own bed by Connor after falling asleep on the couch.  It is here, where his body feels weightless and his mind is on the precipice of limitlessness, that Hank wishes that Connor had really kissed him.  

* * *

4

It’s late at night when Hank gets home.  Connor is still up as he staggers through the door, shuffling heavily towards his bedroom.  It’s been a long few weeks at the precinct, more for Hank than Connor, and Connor can see the toll it’s taking on his partner.  

He’s tried to help take care of Hank, has tried to help make the mundane interesting and the monotonous easy.  Hank has noticed, of course. Has taken in all the little changes Connor has made to his life, but has yet to comment on any of it.  From his place on the couch, illuminated by the soft, gentle glow of the television, Connor can just make out the shadow of Hank’s profile as he stops by the fridge only long enough to pull out the container of leftovers Connor himself had packed away earlier that evening.  When Hank turns back again towards his door, Connor thinks he can see the faint ghost of a smile on Hank’s face. The door shuts and Connor once again finds himself alone to his thoughts in their house.

Their house.  The words hold a strange sort of spell over Connor, and his circuits whirr whenever he thinks about it for too long.  The act of having possessions is still a little novel for him, even now, six months post his deviation. So far, his meager list of belongings is limited primarily to what is useful: a wardrobe consisting of several professional pieces from work and several casual pieces he’s filched from Hank’s own closet, a couple of toys for Sumo that get used almost daily, a hard-bound paper copy of his instruction and his manual, and surprisingly, a single succulent that sits in a decorative pot.

The small cactus had been a gift from Hank to celebrate his official admission to the force.  Of course, Hank had never given it to him face-to-face. Instead, the little plant had simply appeared on the corner of his desk one day, a small card detailing how to care for it sticking out at an angle from underneath the pot.  Connor noticed it immediately, and was already halfway through a scan to determine where it came from before he forces his processors to stop the process. With shaky hands, he reaches out and picks up the pot.

It’s hefty in his hands, the grey, glazed ceramic used to make it thick and sturdy in a way Connor wasn’t expecting.  Turning it slowly, he trails his thumbs over the ridges and bumps that decorate the sides. _Irregular_ his sensors report.   _Handmade.  One of a kind.  Special._

When Connor looks up from his plant, he catches Hank staring at him from across the small chasm between their desks.  He’s less discreet than he probably intends, looking over at Connor every few seconds out of the corner of his eyes. His antics remind Connor of a coy school boy, and it warms his thirium pump to know that Hank is worried about the reception of his incredibly thoughtful gift.

For a moment, Connor zones out as his preconstruction software takes over his consciousness.  In his mind's eye, he watches as a holographic version of himself walks up to a holographic version of Hank, potted succulent still in hand, to press a quick kiss to the side of Hank’s mouth.  Hank smiles at him, wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him a little bit closer, and leans in a touch to whisper to him about the plant he’s holding.

The affection that holo-Hank pays him is easy and relaxed and similar to the office interaction he’d seen Officer Chen have with her wife the previous week.  The simplicity of it seems to mock Connor; what a terrible thing to live in a society that encourages only certain kinds of partners to engage in sweet, public displays of casual intimacy.  In his preconstructed world, Connor smiles and leans into Hank, who presses a soft kiss over his LED. Outside of his preconstructed world, Connor’s LED flashes red.

* * *

5

They don’t talk about it.  Hank distances himself from Connor and sinks into a pit of over-productivity at work that, while it isn’t healthy, at least he hasn’t crawled back into the bottom of a bottle.  He clocks so many hours of overtime, no doubt in his quest to avoid the house, that Captain Fowler sits down with him and threatens to put him on mandator medical leave if he doesn’t give himself a break.  After that, Connor doesn’t know where Hank goes at night after work, only that he comes home - thankfully sober - sometime after Connor powers down into stasis for the night.

It’s one of those nights, where Connor is alone and still in the dark, when he is forced from his stasis cycle to answer a call from the precinct.   _An accident_ , they tell him.  There has been an accident, and Hank is in the hospital.  

Nobody seems to know anything else; they don’t know about Hank’s condition, don’t know about the circumstances that put him there, don’t even know if he’s aware or well enough to receive visitors.  It makes Connor mad, makes his thirium burn white hot and turns his LED so red that he scares the young nurse manning the information desk at the hospital. If he were in his right mind, he’d feel bad about intimidating her, about manipulating her so that she bent to his well.  But, in the moment, the only thing that matters to him is Hank.

When he finally makes it to Hank’s room, blazing down the hallway like it’s a warpath, he stops, stock-still, in the middle of the doorway.  On the way down, his preconstruction software had kicked into overdrive, allowing him to experience scenario after scenario of finding Hank in various stages of hurt.  Somehow, the sight of Hank - lying far too still and looking far too small on a hospital bed - catches him off guard.

He doesn’t remember floating through the room like a ghost.  Doesn’t remember sinking down into the single, decrepit chair that’s been provided for the lone visitor.  Doesn’t remember pulling one of Hank’s giant, pale, bandaged hands into his own. He sits there, posture perfectly pristine, and waits.  

Night bleeds into day.  Twice. Three times. Four.  Before he’s aware of it, a week has passed, and nothing has changed.  He misses work. He misses meetings with Markus and the Jericho crew. He misses his morning walks with Sumo and their late night movie sessions.  All he finds himself able to do is sit there, holding on to Hank like a lifeline, as a rotating team of nurses do their best to take care of him.

Sometime, in the hours that hang between staying up too late and waking up too early, where the world is silent and everything is limitless, Hank wakes up.  He’s groggy and not entirely aware of everything that’s happened, but his nurse is quick to flood into the room and soothe him, pushing Connor away from him, forcing him to stand in the corner.  She checks his vitals twice, talks to him in quiet, hushed tones as she putters around, gives him more pain medication to ease the sting and pull of the stitches that trail from his left shoulder all the way down to his hip.  She tells him that they’re’ going to keep him for at least a little while longer for observation. That, maybe he can go home sometime in the afternoon if he’s stable long enough before hand. None of this makes sense to Hank.  He falls back asleep as soon as the nurse steps outside of his room, all without even noticing Connor’s perch in the corner.

For the first time in nine days, Connor lets go of Hank.  He excuses himself to the hallway, walks down to the tiny cafeteria, orders a small cup of thirium and sips it slowly as he stands in the middle of the room.  When he finally returns to Hank’s room, dawn is just arriving and the sky is a cotton candy pastel wonderland. He slips in silently and takes back his vigil at the side of Hank’s bed.  When Hank wakes again, he turns and looks at Connor like he’s seeing him for the first time. They don’t talk. Hank just tugs weakly on Connor’s hand and doesn’t stop until Connor has crawled into bed with him.  When he falls asleep, Connor is almost too tempted to bend down and place a relieved kiss to the crown of Hank’s head. He settles for tracing patterns of zeros and ones into the back of Hank’s hand.

* * *

+1

When Connor comes out of stasis, it’s to a repeated, gentle pressure being applied to one of his hands.  He blinks awake and performs an initial scan of the room. The nurse on the current rotation has already been in for the morning, as her name has been changed on the information board.  The television is on, muted, playing some sort of crime drama with subtitles. The glass of water on bedside table has been refreshed within the last half hour and someone has taken a drink from it within the last ten minutes.  He feels the pressure on his hand again, feels the rough scratch of bristled hair against his skin. He turns his head and finally looks at Hank. Who is awake. And lowering Connor’s own hand from his face.

“Good morning,” he blurts, his circuits whirring in an attempt to process what has just happened.

“Hi,” Hank replies, his voice soft and rough from disuse.  He doesn’t offer up anything else to Connor, doesn’t make any moves to either explain his actions or disentangle their hands from one another.  He simply turns his attention back to the small television mounted in the corner to his left.

Connor stares at him for a while, his LED flashing red as he makes sense of it all.  “This must be another preconstruction,” he says simply, allowing himself to melt down against Hank’s side.  It feels luxurious to him, even in the confines of the hospital, to be stretched out against Hank. To feel Hank’s warmth, his solid form, the rise and fall of his chest as he takes each, even breath.  He lingers there, in the bliss that he’s created for himself only for a moment. The illusion shatters when Hank speaks again.

“It’s not,” he comments.  “Why do you think it is?”

Connor is silent beside him for a moment, immediately reeling as far away from Hank as he can without rising from the hospital bed.  Even though Hank isn’t saying anything else, everything feels too loud. Connor is tempted by the option of fleeing, of tearing himself from the hospital bed and pretending like the past week and a half have been meaningless.  

“Connor,” Hank says, reaching a hand up to turn Connor’s face towards himself.  “Why do you think this is a preconstruction?”

He chooses his words carefully, on the off chance that it really isn’t a preconstruction.  “Because,” he murmurs. “We don’t act like this in reality.”

“Act like what?” Hank asks, his thumb twitching over the arch of Connor’s cheekbone.  

Connor’s eyes flutter shut at the action, and he leans into the touch.   His recording software has been running ever since his first blink awake, and he knows that, no matter what turns out to be real, he will cherish this moment for the rest of his life.  

“Act like we’re more than just partners at work,” he finally answers.  “Act like we love each other.”

When he opens his eyes, he watches as Hank seems to process his admission.  He watches as the initial shock and disbelief fade from Hank’s expression, stares as glimpses of sorrow, of apology, of deeply felt joy come and go.  “Oh, Connor,” he murmurs, so soft and gentle in his tone that Connor wants to cry from how it tender it makes him feel. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I wanted to,” Connor admits.  “Hundreds of times. But it didn’t seem like my affections were requited.  I wanted to save myself the embarrassment and preserve our friendship. But I failed on that account, too.”

“Failed on that account?” Hank repeats.  “What the hell do you mean by that?”

Connor’s attempt at fidgeting is quelled by Hank’s hand dropping from his face to cradle Connor’s fingers in his palm.  “The day you gifted me the succulent,” Connor says. “I was deep in a preconstruction about thanking you. In that scenario, I kissed you.  It was clear from your body language that we were together. That I could act like that.”

He pauses to clutch tighter at Hank’s hand, afraid that if he loses his hold on him, that Hank will disappear like all the other times a preconstruction has ended.  

“When I came out of it,” he continues, “you wouldn’t look at me.  Wouldn’t talk to me. I figured you knew and that I had made you uncomfortable with my feelings.  I didn’t want you to feel pressured about it. I’m sorry.”

“Your LED was red,” Hank states, staring at Connor like his words should mean something.  

“When?” Connor asks.  

“The day I gave you that plant,” Hank answers.  “I watched you pick it up, touch the pot it was in, and then zone out with a red LED.  I thought you hated it.”

“Oh,” Connor breathes, his LED flashing yellow as he listens.

“Yeah,” Hank says, smiling warmly at Connor.  “Looks like we’re both a pair of fucking idiots.”

Connor laughs, wild and unfettered, still pressed up against Hank’s side, with Hank’s hand in his, and Hank’s soft chuckles tickling the small hairs on his neck.  and it feels like being free.

Eventually, they quiet.  Hank finishes watching his shows while Connor sorts out his discharge paperwork.  When they slide into the car with Connor behind the wheel, he turns and fixes Hank with the best serious expression he has.  “When we get home, I’m going to kiss you,” he says. “If you’re ok with it.”

“Sure,” Hank replies.  “Knock yourself out, kid.”

He waits until Hank has settled into the house.  Waits until he’s cleaned himself up, waits until he’s spent some quality time with Sumo, waits until he gets up from the sofa - mid basketball game - to mozy into the kitchen for a drink of water.  He catches Hank by the sink then, plucks the glass clean out of his hand, and leans up to press a shy kiss against Hank’s cheek.

“You missed,” Hank tells him after a moment, reaching over to take his water glass back.  He sips from it twice before setting it down on the countertop.

“I did?” Connor asks.

“Yeah,” Hank confirms.  “Maybe you should try again.”

“I should?” Connor asks, looking up at Hank from beneath his lashes.  He knows that Hank is aware that he’s acting coy on purpose, just to make him smile.

“Connor,” Hank says, the edges of his mouth twitching up ever so slightly.  “Kiss me again.”

And Connor, ever the obedient android, does as he’s told.


End file.
